by Tony Batton
She moved so fast he almost didn't see it. She launched a fist into his side, which he got nowhere near blocking. Her hand seemed to be made of iron. He felt the rib break, and he wheezed in pain. There was a sudden hush.
"Not used to getting hit?" she asked, tilting her head on one side.
Inside Rodriguez something snapped. He exploded at the woman, ignoring her fists, her arms. His first blow lifted deep into her ribcage, his second caught the side of her head, full force. There was a crack of bone and she flew through the air, blood arcing from her mouth. She crumpled onto the sawdust. Everything went still.
Then the crowd exploded.
The owner looked at the slumped figure, stepped through the ropes and lifted up Rodriguez's arm. "A bit of a light entertainment to finish. Now if you..." He trailed off at the sound of gasps.
A woman's voice spoke. "Get. Out."
The bar-owner span around.
"Get out of my ring," the woman said, her eyes almost glowing as she pulled herself upright, wiping the blood from her lips, then pausing to taste it.
The owner's face went white and he climbed back through the ropes.
"The fight is done," Rodriguez said, shaking his head. "This is madness."
"I will say when it's done." She stepped towards him.
Rodriguez looked at her face. No bruising. Even the blood was fading. A chill went down his spine. "Who are you? What are you?"
"I am the last person you will ever fight. Have you shown me everything you know?"
"You don't even look like you've been hit."
"I'll take that as a yes." And then she moved. With perfect economy, she struck him. Not with a fist, but with an open palm, square in his chest, directly over his heart.
Rodriguez barely knew what had happened. His heart ruptured as he flew back through the ropes, knocking over several patrons. He lay on the floor, coughing blood. As he breathed his last, all he could think was that he had just faced the devil.
Around the room there were gasps. The woman did not even look at her fallen opponent. She was staring around the crowd. Then she turned to the owner and cleared her throat. "Ten thousand pesos, was it?"
The owner tugged at his collar, clearly not sure whether to be more worried about himself or the money. "I don't keep that much on me..."
Some of the patrons started muttering. No weapons were allowed in the bar, but that did not mean there were no weapons in the bar.
The woman shrugged. "Then drinks for all these good people." She waved around the room. "On me." She nodded to the owner. "Ten thousand pesos' worth should keep everyone merry."
There was a moment of hesitation, then the owner shrugged and nodded at his bar staff. The crowd cheered.
The woman nodded at the owner. "Smart move."
"I like to keep the fighting in the ring. Speaking of which", he looked at her hopefully, "I seem to have a vacancy for the role of house champion."
She adjusted her necklace. "Sorry. I'm just passing through. I heard Rodriguez had some moves and wanted to see them for myself."
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"I learn from anyone who has something to teach me. Then I move on."
The owner shook his head. "You are most unique."
Alex Marron smiled. "Very nearly."
Twelve
THE BLACK MERCEDES LIMOUSINE DROVE through the automatic gates between the high walls. Bern glanced briefly at the police escort, which had stopped outside the gates, and permitted himself a small smile. His lawyers had fought hard to keep them off the property – and Bern could afford to hire very capable lawyers. So far they had failed in only one respect - he flexed his ankle, feeling the weight of the GPS tracking band that he had to wear as a condition of his release. It was a temporary setback: something he would deal with in due course.
The car rolled slowly up the curving gravel driveway, past immaculately coifed privet hedges, and finally he saw the classic Edwardian house he had not been back to in nearly a year. Of course he had not expected to ever be back here, but then very little had gone to plan. He should have escaped on his yacht, the Phoenix, with money and technology to deploy to take him on to bigger things. Now his plans were more than twelve months behind and deeply compromised. Before, he had meant to slip quietly into the shadows. Now the world, more than ever, was watching his every move.
The car came to a stop outside the house and he stepped out. Eli Quinn, his estate manager, was waiting. "William, welcome home. The house is ready for you."
Bern nodded. "I appreciate you keeping things running."
Quinn opened the front door and led Bern inside. The floors gleamed and the furniture looked freshly polished. They strode through the long hall, past a line of oil paintings, and into the lounge looking across the main lawn.
Bern walked over to the window and drank in the view. "So, what's new? They've refused to tell me anything about Marron. Did he make some kind of deal?"
"Not that we're aware of. Why, did you expect that?"
"Not really. If he wants to get out, he'll do it on his own terms. Any developments with his daughter?"
"No body. No trace."
"Pity." He rubbed his brow. "And my... son?"
Quinn picked up a file from the coffee table. "Have a look through this if you fancy reading the collected guesswork."
"Maybe later. I'm more interested in what's happening with my company."
"Best you speak to your lawyers. Fiona Farrow called. She wants a meeting here tomorrow."
"Get her cleared with our friends outside."
Quinn nodded. "If it's any comfort, Lentz is doing a competent job. She's steadied the ship."
"Better than sinking it, I guess." Bern poured himself a coffee from the waiting pot. "So, who has wanted to know about me?"
"There've been, at the last count, nine unauthorised books about you since the incident. Everyone wants to know the truth about what happened. We've heard that the Leskov family has been conducting investigations. Viktor's son, Andrei, is in charge now."
"An inevitable consequence of our carefully constructed house of cards falling down. We should watch them carefully. They might have hesitated to reach me in prison, but here they may feel I'm more accessible."
"I'll review security. But it's going to be difficult getting any proper weaponry in with the police taking such a close interest." Quinn picked up a computer tablet and scrolled through a list. "Oh yes, your bank manager also wants to speak. Something about liquidity problems after paying the £200 million bail."
"More work for my lawyers, no doubt. If I have to get them involved any more I won't have any money left to pay them."
"Which brings me to the Americans. Specifically, the CIA. They've been trying, and failing, to get access to you in prison. Now you're out, they're hoping a meeting can be arranged."
"Why would I want to talk to them?"
"Perhaps they can make you an offer you won't want to refuse."
"I'd almost do it just to see the expression on Reems' face. But I'm sure I can trust them even less than her. Tell them to go screw themselves." Bern smiled. "Now, I'm going to enjoy my first day back under my own roof. Tomorrow, there'll be a surprise or two for everyone."
Thirteen
IT WAS A GREY DAY at King's College Hospital in central London, the clouds surly and low. George Croft pushed through the door and strode into the car park, his hands clenching and unclenching. His daughter had deteriorated and, although the doctors weren't agreed on why her leukaemia was advancing beyond their worst predictions, advancing it was. There were no more treatment options available. She had a few months at most.
Croft stared long and hard at the pavement. She was only nine.
His ex-wife had been there too, making the impossible even more so. He'd said he had to get back to work, but the truth was he just couldn't stand to be there another moment with the woman he could no longer talk to, and the daughter he could not save. The feeling of
powerlessness gave him nausea. Swearing at the air, he walked back to his car and climbed in. He adjusted the rear view mirror and froze. There was someone sitting in the back.
The woman, who wore a grey coat and dark glasses, nodded. "Take a breath, George. I just want to talk."
Croft's hand strayed to his gun, concealed in his shoulder holster. "We agreed not to meet in public."
She smiled. Her teeth were perfect. "Sometimes we are not in control of the timetable. You do still want that miracle, yes?"
"That is a stupid question."
"Then shut up and let me explain the problem." She held up a large brown envelope and passed it to him. "Read the contents."
He took it and removed three neatly printed pages, which he quickly scanned. "How are you getting this?"
"All that matters is that Reems is a concern. She's going to need some assistance if she's to make the right choice."
"She's not one to listen to counsel."
"We just need you to stay close to her in case she makes any bad decisions. Be there to pick up the pieces." She adjusted her dark glasses. "Remember, she's the one breaking the rules. You're duty-bound to do something."
Croft slid the documents back into the envelope. "But is it the right thing?"
The woman looked towards the hospital building and smiled. "I think you know the answer to that."
Fourteen
KATE PARKED SMOOTHLY IN HER dedicated space, the Audi coupe lined up next to a number of other nearly-new vehicles. She grabbed her attaché case and strode into the express executive lift, her make-up already perfectly applied, clutching no take-out coffee because she had cut down to one a day. As she spoke the command for her floor, she glanced at her watch and saw she was early. She almost laughed: so much had changed in a year.
On Level 87 Kate stepped from the lift and glided through the open-plan area, past the smiling face of her personal assistant, and into her corner office. The door swung closed and she hung her coat up. As she did, a piece of paper fell from one pocket: the leaflet from Brocca.
Sighing, she thought again about the previous evening. So much for her idea that there had been a connection between her and Tom. Clearly that was all in her head – and she didn't even want to think about what was in his head: all he was able to connect with was computers.
The desk-screen bleeped softly and a message from her assistant flashed up; her nine o'clock was here. She tapped to confirm she was ready, and there was a knock at her door. "Come in."
Geraldine, her former boss from Business Week News, appeared, a fixed smile on her face. They hugged awkwardly, and Kate ordered tea. It arrived in moments and she poured for them both as they took seats in matching armchairs around a glass coffee table.
Geraldine gestured at the room. "It has to be said, you were never going to get an office like this at BWN."
Kate waved her hands. "You kind of forget it after the first couple of weeks."
"Caught up in the work, I'm sure. How are you enjoying things?"
"It's been quite a ride, no secret. But the company is pulling together. A number of new product lines are about to—"
Geraldine leaned forwards. "I hear MI5 are still buzzing around."
"I can't really comment." Kate paused. "It's a lot less exciting than it sounds."
"I'm sure that isn't true."
"You probably know more than I do," she said with a particularly broad smile. "Your contacts were always better than mine."
"Oh come on." Geraldine flickered an eyebrow. "I heard that nanotechnology is back on the agenda, and you're going to be pushing for a review of the legislation."
"We have no plans in the realm of nano—"
"Sure, sure. And are you in contact with Tom?"
Kate felt her eyelid twitch. "You may have unrealistic expectations of what we can talk about."
"Unrealistic? A year ago you decided to kill the best story we've ever had. You said you'd get me a different scoop. Twelve months later, I'm still waiting."
"You know why I made that decision. You said you supported it."
"Yeah, well you said some things too at the time, but since then you've said nothing. What is CERUS's position on the release of William Bern?"
"He was bailed, not released. And my personal view is that it shouldn't have happened. Stephanie Reems must be furious."
"Oh I don't know," replied Geraldine. "I have a source that says Reems personally approved it."
"That's impossible. She'd sooner die."
"Which makes it all the more interesting that she did it. And what about this beta site?"
Kate folded her arms. "That's a myth. There's no way Bern could have hidden such a facility from all company records, let alone government surveillance."
"Given enough time, enough money, and enough motivation, do you really think that's true? Stories have come out that his late wife was plotting against him, and he knew. He had good reason to be hiding things of value." Geraldine slurped some of her tea. "If you were still a reporter, you'd be crawling all over this."
"Yes, well, I'm not."
"Don't you miss it? I'm doing a piece on Glifzenko, the Pharma giant, and their aim to drive CERUS Biotech into the ground. It could be career defining. That's the kind of mark I want to leave behind: I don't plan on selling out."
"You think that's what I've done?"
Geraldine gestured at Kate's office with a shrug. "How does it feel being the one killing the story, instead of writing it?"
Kate sucked in her top lip. "There comes a point when you have to move forwards, not backwards."
"Even if it means being economical with the truth?"
"Oh, come on. It's not like you to be so... unsubtle. What's going on?"
Geraldine cleared her throat. "You're right. My apologies." She stood up and held out her hand. "No hard feelings?"
Kate stood and shook the proffered hand. "Of course not."
"Good. And, really, I'm pleased for you. Proud even."
Kate felt the palm of her hand tingle slightly. Then the back of her head. "You know, I think you mean that."
"Well, I'm not some completely heartless monster." She turned to leave. "You know, if I were you, even if I didn't plan on using the information, I'd want answers to these questions. And I'd use whatever methods I could to get to them." She shrugged. "But of course I don't tell you what to do any more. It's up to you."
Fifteen
ON THE EDGE OF THE tiny village in the Atacama Desert in Northern Chile, in a crumbling brick temple that served as a Dojo, the old man stood poised. He ignored the dry, scratching heat. Instead he shifted his balance and breathed deeply, his worn robes flowing as he moved gently forwards. It was a complex sequence, but it was his creation, and he had been teaching it for nearly fifty years. Precision, grace and power articulated in what most would see as a form of dance, but which was, in fact, an expression of one of the oldest forms of unarmed combat. The old man brought his hands together, completing the movement. Then he waited.
The young woman echoed his moves, although to use the word 'echo' was to denigrate her achievement. He had never seen such a student. She recalled every nuance, every motion, with absolute perfection. Her body moved with a grace and control that was almost poetic. It was impressive enough and yet, by her own admission, she had had no formal training in any form of Kung Fu. After only a single day he had taken her through each of the fundamental disciplines of his art. She had grasped everything with but a single demonstration. There was little more he could teach her.
He bowed formally, indicating they should sit and take tea. They moved to a low, crude table and he poured the hot bitter liquid from a crude clay pot. They raised their cups to each other and enjoyed the moment of calm. He let it linger before speaking, "May I ask you a question?"
She bowed her head and replied in Spanish so good she could have passed as Chilean. "It is your Dojo, Master."
"I have been in this village for fifty years. I have s
een thousands pass through. But I have never met one such as you." He looked deep into her eyes. "What is your secret?"
"That you are a great teacher."
He smiled and sipped from his tea. "If only that were true."
"I could have learned what you have taught me from no other." Her eyes flickered. "And believe me when I say I have looked."
"You have not told me what you are looking for. You have not even told me your name."
"It is safest if I don't."
"Safest for whom?"
She broke a slight smile. "Your brain is as sharp as a man in his twenties."
He gave a snort. "If that is right, why are you still such an enigma to me?"
"I'm not someone easily understood. Now I have one request, before I leave."
"Ask, my child."
"I should like us to duel."
He laughed. "Perhaps thirty years ago. Alas now my heart and bones would not honour my craft." Then he saw her expression and frowned. "You were serious?"
"I was. I am."
"But what would be the purpose?"
"I would give you that final moment." She exhaled slowly. "That you may die with honour."
The old man blinked slowly, but he did not move. "Why should I die without honour?" He paused. "Of course the better question is, why should I die at all?"
"It comes to us all, Master. And there will be those that seek me. I cannot leave one behind who knows so much."
"I knew you were trouble. Yet, something told me not to refuse your request." He stood up and straightened his robes. "Why are you doing this? What is it that you seek?"
Her response was immediate. "Perfection. I'm sure that's why you went to China. As a young man."
He narrowed his eyes. "What do you know of that?"
"I know you trained with true masters – one of very few Westerners to do so. I know you rose to greatness. And I know you left at great speed, and in disgrace."
